


Waltzing with an Earthquake

by efficaceous



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Pacific Rim (2013), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:46:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 15,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efficaceous/pseuds/efficaceous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the epic Pacific Rim/Phlint mash-up everyone always wanted.  I hope I've done it justice.<br/>Much love to my beta, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/fondueyourself/pseuds/fondueyourself">fondueyourself</a>, who corrected my issues with patience and fortitude.<br/>I "borrowed" a lot of inside jokes from my favorite Phlint fics as well as some outside sources (Dickens, Spider Robinson, and Card, particularly.)<br/>If people want an annotated bibliography, I could be prevailed upon to provide one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Insert Witty Title Here-

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kcsplace](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kcsplace).



“I lost my good right hand, Nick.” The man was clearly drunk. He sprawled on a gurney in a small exam area, surrounded by thin curtains on three sides. 

Fury sighed. “You lost your left hand, Phil, not your right hand. And we’ll get you a prosthesis as soon as the tissue finishes healing. Which will be faster if you stop sneaking out. You won’t even be able to-”

Phil straightened up and cut him off. “No, my other hand! I mean Melinda. I lost...Melinda. It’s a ...whatamacallit. A parable. No, a metaphor. I mean a metaphor. She won’t return my calls; I left her seventeen voicemails. Seventeen!”

“May needed some time to herself, Phil. You know she’ll be fine, she’s with Andrew.” ‘Probably’, Nick internally amended. ‘Hopefully.’

“I know, I know, they’ll be ok without me, but without my copilot, without my hand, how will I be ok? It's all broken. I'm broken. What’s going to happen to me, Nick? What use am I without her, with The Bus out of commission, with one damn hand!?” His voice rose to the point where the nurses had turned their heads to check on the commotion, but seeing the Director, wisely returned their gazes to their glowing screens. Phil slumped back down and awkwardly pulled a pillow over his face.

Privately, Nick thought that Phil might be right. There weren’t many opportunities for a Jaeger pilot without a partner, let alone one whose Jaeger was currently in pieces in holding bay 11. The pieces they'd been able to find.

“Let me handle that, you just concentrate on getting better.” Regardless of his own misgivings, there was no way Fury would let Phil wallow in self pity. Phil needed a new mission, a new path.

Eventually, the Pilot Matching Program might even find him a new co pilot. The record for longest wait until a match had been Steven Rogers matching with James Barnes, after 75 years. But since both of them had been in various forms of cryostasis for the majority of the time, that didn’t really count. The longest wait for a co pilot, barring Captain Rogers, had been Peggy Carter, who died unmatched, in her 80’s, having served as his predecessor as Director of the Jaeger Program for over two decades. Her profile had been active for more than half a century with no matches above a weak 65%. Pilots were considered a functional match at 80%, the highest match on record was Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons at 98.3%.

Even after Director Carter was past the age when piloting would have been physically possible, she still made sure her profile was active in the system. “Just in case,” she used to say, and grin a little, “You simply never know who will pop up.”

And maybe someone would pop up that had the right temperament to mesh with Phil’s, whose strengths would supported Phil’s weaknesses and whose weaknesses Phil could counteract. Melinda had only matched 81% with Phil but their record had been exemplary. No reason to think Phil couldn't match that well again, or nearly.

* * *

 

Later, back in his quarters, Fury entered the parameters into the system. Active, healthy agents, minimum 75% match, no homophobia, no amputee fetishism. Phil didn’t need any new drama or conflict in his life. The search ran. Nick waited, impatiently but not expecting any miracles.

"No matches found."

Damn.


	2. Graduation Day

Sam threw his four-cornered hat into the air with a joyful shout. "We did it guys! We're agents, we're Pilots!"

Natasha scoffed. "We're not pilots yet, ptitsa paren, not until we get a match through the system. The only thing that happens today is that our profiles become active and show up in search results."

"Ah, Romanov, don't burst my bubble just because your match is already in the bag." Sam gestured at Clint, who was aiming his mortar board at a low hanging pear in a tree. The tree stood in the next courtyard over, half a football field away, next to the young man in the purple graduation gown sat a scruffy one-eyed mutt.

Natasha glared at him but only replied, "And do you think your match with Agent Triplett is not common knowledge? "

Sam had the good grace to blush, then went on the offensive. "You only know that because the two of you spied on us from the air vents until I blocked them. With a stainless steel plate. Besides, sleeping together doesn't guarantee a match, Nat. I mean, sure, it helps sometimes but... " His voice trailed off as the pair watched Clint’s perfect hat toss dropped the pear at the feet of the Dean of Students. The mongrel was unperturbed.

"How does he even do that?” She had disappeared. “Nat? Dang. Every time..." He knew it had been pointless to try and dig for info on her relationship with Clint. No one knew if it was familial, platonic, romantic, erotic, or some combination thereof. And everyone had speculated since the first day of classes when they'd come in draped over each other but Clint openly ogled their professor’s ass every time the poor man turned to write on the board.

Speaking of whom, Sam wandered across the two fields separating them to where Clint was actively not admiring his handwork and the chaos created by his well-thrown mortar board. 

“So, have you guys decided what type of Jaeger you’ll request?” Clint wasn’t looking at him and made no reply, but Sam pressed on. “I kind of maybe have a wager on Natasha picking a modified Lancelot with electrified swords. Help a friend out, give me a hint?”

Clint finally turned and his face lit up. “Oh hey, Sam, what’s up?”

After a quick peek, Sam realized Clint wasn’t wearing his hearing aids and had heard none of the previous questioning. He sighed deeply and started over, having Clint’s full attention at last.

“Clint, which Jaeger are you and Nat going to pick? Lancelot?” His hands moved smoothly as he made the sign for ‘sword’. Clint lip read well, but knowing ASL could only help Sam’s resume so he practiced every chance he got.

“Uh, how should I know?” Face wrinkling, Clint shrugged unconcernedly.

“I thought you two would have at least discussed it. Since you’ll be her co-pilot and all.” 

“Me and Nat? Nah man, no way. She’s got her sights set on someone else, and besides, there’s no way we’d ever match.”

“Really? After being together for 3 years, doing everything together, and sleeping together, you two won’t match?” Now Sam truly was confused.

“Sleeping tog- Oh. Oh! Sam, Nat’s aces all around, she’s my favorite, but she’s ace. Ace. You know?”

Ace. Asexual. Huh. Sam had not known this fact. He imagined very, very few people knew this about Natasha. Maybe they’d all been blinded by her crazy high scores on every exam and physical challenge. Plus the way she and Clint snuggled together on/in every available piece of furniture was certainly a good piece of misdirection.

Clint let him process this new information for a moment before continuing a bit hesitantly.  
“Also, I’m looking for something different than she is. She wants to attack, be a front line warrior on the rift. I want to defend a city, have a home base. Plus, Pizza Dog would be lost without a local place on speed dial.”

Something about Clint’s past resonated in the back of Sam’s mind. Clint had entered the academy straight after aging out of a group foster home. Chances were that he’d never had a safe place to call his own for more than a few months until he’d gotten in here, and this place was never meant to be a long term waystation either. It made sense now that Clint would long for a feeling of permanence, of community, even as he risked his life to protect his adopted city.

Realizing that he had let his end of the conversation lapse, Sam pulled his face together and punched Clint lightly on the shoulder. “Good luck buddy, I bet you’ll find a match real soon.”


	3. "Match Found"

“Match found.”

The automated voice was programmed to be as neutral as possible, but Nick still felt a thrill at the words. He had expanded his search to include new agents as well as those with special needs of their own, figuring it was better to get Phil back on track with a partner than to wait for perfection. 

He lay in bed for another moment, indulging in speculation on who the system had found. 

Maybe they’d paired Phil with one of the new Inhuman recruits, let him mentor a youngster for a while. Or maybe it was someone from outside their agency, another of the alphabet groups, a consummate professional who would take no nonsense but have a sort of teasing comradeship with Phil.

Enough guessing. He sat up and moved to the desk, pulling up the match file. His eyes went to the match percent first. 94%? Really, fucker? Then the information began to filter into the rest of his brain- a new agent who had just graduated from the academy. Sniper skills like whoa, but personality tests ranked him as protector rather than an aggressor.

“Deaf?!” At first Nick felt doubt, that clearly there was no match if the new agent was functionally deaf without his hearing aides. Then the machinations started and a grin grew on his face.

Oh, this would be perfect. They were going to hate each other. At first. But looking deeper, Nick could see how strong the team they would form could be. This was good. This could work. 

Now all he had to do was convince Phil. And this other guy… Barton. Convince them that they could work together.


	4. Assholes, Tools and Motherfuckers (To be sung to the tune of 'Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves' by the immortal Cher)

Clint had just dropped his backpack and final box in his new quarters when a message flashed on his communication screen.

* * *

  
From: FuriousNick@SHIELD.earth.sol  
To: ‘new kid’ ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.earth.sol

Barton: Go train.  
-Director Fury.  
P.S. Now.

There are two rules for success: 1. Never tell everything you know. T. Toedter

* * *

 

Rather than look like a chump, or piss off the director on his very first day of his new assignment, Clint shucked off his hoodie and grabbed his sparring sticks. 

“You stay here.” He pointed to the bowls on the kitchen floor. “Water. Food. I’ll be back.”

  
The shaggy dog appeared to ignore him.

Clint checked the map on the wall outside his door, then headed down to the training gym.

The training gym was similar to the academy’s, with a layout based on a traditional dojo. The main floor was a large open mat big enough for four pairs to fight without getting in each other’s way. Along the edge of the room hung heavy bags.  A rock climbing wall dominated the north wall and another corner held free weights.  

 

Two pairs of fighters were practicing on corners of the main mat, one doing hand to hand and another practicing body throws. In the other corner a man stood, in the most formal workout attire Clint had ever seen; all Asics and Lululemon. The guy was facing away from the door where Clint stood, but was slowly moving through Bartitsu positions and feints, all of which reminded Clint of nothing more than fencing postures.

 

Every time the man fully extended his left hand, the stick would waver slightly. Did he have control issues? Clint wondered. Finally the maneuvers turned him enough that Clint could study the man more fully. He was in his 30’s, though Clint couldn’t be certain which end of the decade. The receding hairline said latter, but the well defined musculature and smooth movements spoke to vitality. His face had smile lines around the eyes, which were, wow, so very blue, but he was clearly in another world, inwardly focused and slightly frowning. From the front, Clint could also see why the left extensions were so uncertain when every other movement was so fluid. He wore black gloves on both hands, but the left one was just slightly  larger than the right, and didn’t flex and relax with the rest of his body. Probably a prosthetic of some type?

 

Warmth curled through Clint’s midsection. The man appealed to him. Strength coupled with overcoming adversity had always been one of his preferences. Scars evoked respect in him, the same with injuries. He wanted to know more about the guy, so he followed the edge of the mat and toed off his shoes. By now the man had seen him approach and was waiting expectantly. Clint stepped up and bowed respectfully before proffering his own taiaha.

 

The man bowed in return before meeting Clint’s eyes briefly and speaking.  “I’m coming off of an injury and I-”

 

“It’s fine.” Clint interrupted with a grin, “I’ll take it easy on you.” Now, Clint intended this to be Witty Banter Type One. The man did not appear familiar with Clint Barton’s Patented Flirting Plan, and his eyebrows rose in surprise and displeasure before speaking slowly and clearly. “I assure you, that was not my intention.”

 

Then, without telegraphing anything, the man launched a series of forward advances, the sticks in both hands flying toward Clint with an alarming rapidity.

 

Training kicked in and Clint stopped his retreat after a few steps, getting his hands up to defend, then riposte.

 

“Easy, guy, I wasn’t implying-” The man tightened his grips and performed a classic Raddoppio, again forcing Clint to take steps backwards.

 

“Did Nick send you? Did he tell you to make sure I wasn’t overdoing it? Because-” Clint lunged to the left, taking advantage of the man’s slightly delayed reflexes on that side.

 

“Nick? Nick Fury? Yeah! I mean, yes, the Director did send me a message-”

“That meddling motherfucker. You can tell him to go-”

                                                                                                                  “-A message to train! That was it!”

                                                                                 “-go fuck himself!”

 

It was seeing the way those lips popped over the fricatives in the word ‘fuck’ that did Clint in. Despite the man’s aggression, there was no dirty play going on, no sneaky body blows. In fact, the more the repartee went on, the more convinced Clint was that the guy really needed to be asked out for coffee and blowjobs. But that word coming out of his mouth made Clint honest-to-god trip over his own feet. And, he decided, if he was going down, they both were. A last minute leg sweep pulled the man down right on top of him, just as Clint had intended.

 

They both froze there, more than a little hard against each other’s thighs, having a moment of eye contact before a deep voice echoed across the training area.

 

“Tell me yourself, Phil. I’m glad to see you’ve met your new match. Agent Coulson, this is Agent Barton.”

 

The man, Coulson, jumped up and offered his hand to Clint. Clint took it and was pulled to his feet. They stood for a moment brushing themselves off before Coulson turned to Director Fury.

“I’m not looking for a new match. I’m not ready. Lola’s… in pieces. I’m- I’m not ready.” Clint mourned the loss of the firm, dry hand with the strong grip as the man clearly steeled himself and talked back to Nick Fury?!

 

“Sorry, Cheese, I need you ready. You know the intervals between Kaiju are getting shorter and shorter and about the initiative I’m building, and I need you two, as a team, sooner than later.”

 

Clint watched as Coulson face got grimmer and the tips of his ears turned pink with emotion.

 

“No. No way. Go hunt down Melinda and Andrew and give them The Helix. Or whatever new, beastly jaeger you have in R&D. You don’t need me and you don’t need Lola. And this horny asshole- he doesn’t need any of this either.” Phil’s face was shuttered and adamant as he turned and stalked out of the gym, pausing only to grab his shinai.

 

‘Horny asshole’? That was how Coulson, his match, saw him? Clint watched him walk away, confused, hurt, and still a little turned on.

 


	5. Director Fury Regrets Letting First year Agents Pick Their Own Email Handles

* * *

  
From: FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov  
To: ‘this horny asshole’ ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.gov  
Cc: ‘really fucker’ CoulsonPhilCoulson@SHIELD.gov  
Bcc: Melinda.May@SHIELD.gov

Agent Barton,  
I recognize that Agent Coulson has made a decision, but given that it's a stupid-ass decision, I've elected to ignore it. I also recognize that you may now be hesitant to embark on this partnership, so as inducement let me offer the following: upon satisfactory completion of 180 days of probationary partnership and copiloting with Agent Coulson, Kate Bishop will be granted early admission into SHIELD academy. (She can pay her own bill; I know she can afford to do so.) This offer is NOT contingent on any obligation after the 180 day trial period has expired.

Director Fury

There are two rules for success: 1. Never tell everything you know. T. Toedter

 

* * *

 

 

Clint blinked twice, slowly, and reread the message.  Director Fury wanted, no, really wanted him to work with the man who'd fought him, rubbed on him,then insulted him? And Fury wanted this SO badly that he was willing to let Kate into SHIELD at least 2 years earlier than protocol. How did the director even know about her?

 

The duration of the offer hit him next. 180 days didn’t sound terrible but 6 months was half a year. Half a year of working with someone who clearly didn’t want him around.  When he was younger, Clint had figured out that he could tolerate really painful things for about 17 hours at a go: bitter cold, bad smells, physical pain. But after that he would lose focus, stop caring so much about whatever the goal or mission was. Did he want to sign up for 4,320 hours of potentially significant discomfort? Subtract 6 hours a night for sleeping, 2 hours a day for eating, bathing and crapping. That still left 2,880.

 

Yeah, he probably could, he figured. Even if he had to take it 17 hours at a time. For Kate. And for himself. Because at the end, he would either have a partner and a jaeger and a home, or he’d have leverage over Fury to request any SHIELD location as his next placement.  

 

17 hours at a time.

 

* * *

 

From: FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov

To: ‘really fucker’ CoulsonPhilCoulson@SHIELD.gov

Cc: ‘this horny asshole’

Bcc: MELINDA.MAY@SHIELD.gov

 

Phil,

*180 days. Unlimited resources to fix Lola, together.

 

-Nick

 

There are two rules for success: 1. Never tell everything you know.  T. Toedter

* * *

 

 

Fuck, Phil thought with resignation, then spoke aloud to himself, testing the words in the air, “I am actually going to have to go through with this travesty.”

 


	6. A Montage of Minimal Progress

Phil is a man with a PhD in preparedness. (Ask him about it, he got it through a diploma mill online and keeps his thesis as a doorstopper in his bedroom.) As a result, he already had a few files on hand for the refitting of the L-Class 01A model Jaeger. ‘Lola’ as he liked to call her back when he and Melinda were still learning the ropes. Ok, more than a few. And not just files.

When Clint arrived in the basement holding bay, Lucky’s leash gripped in one hand, he stood just inside the broad door. The walls had been mostly obscured with diagrams, printouts, photo arrays, schematics and even a 3-D screen displaying the atomic fuel cell layout. Lucky sat at his feet, clearly bored by the new space already.

In contrast, the floor was nearly entirely empty. Metal racks stood to one side, filled with cardboard boxes that looked full. And heavy. Towards the back of the bay, he saw the carapace, a faded red that must once have been vibrant. As he stepped further in, he could tell that the bay extended back quite far, full of large, dark, foreboding pieces of metal. Nothing seemed like it had any more of a future than as scrap.

Clint Barton is not a man prone to introspection. So it should surprise no one that after a few moments glancing around he strode over to the shelves and heaved the first box out. It hit the unlined floor with a loud CLANG.

“Hey!” From far back among the ruined pieces a sharp voice sounded. Clint sighed. He had kind of hoped to get some work done on his own before he had to try and make nice with Agent Coulson, who clearly didn’t like him. Coulson, who clearly had issues. Nay, subscriptions.

Lucky hadn’t gotten that memo, because he chose that moment to bolt towards the sound of approaching feet, taking advantage of Clint’s momentary distraction. Clint couldn’t actually see what happened next; his view was blocked by another of those metal racks, but he had his aids in and could hear the disaster and infer the trainwreck. Lucky had bounded forward, leash trailing behind him. Coulson had been hurrying towards where Clint was, at the front of the bay, not expecting any projectile canines. Lucky’s leash got hung up under the corner of one of the racks, making him a living tripwire. Over which Coulson actually managed not to trip. But Lucky was not aptly named, and Coulson’s hands must have been full because he somehow ended up bumping a rack which tilted, wobbled and finally spilled its boxes.

The noise was astonishing. Crashing metal, rolling parts, even shattering glass. Lucky even howled along until the very last hubcap stopped its tinny rocking. Coulson hadn’t lost his feet, but his expression was the definition of glowering as he stalked carefully through the mess.

The silence that spread through the bay was unsettling after the cacophony. Clint took one defensive step back then stood his ground until Coulson was two feet in front of him.

“A DOG?” There was no modulation there, no careful presentation of voice or face. Coulson was pissed. “A FUCKING DOG? Do you know what was on that rack? In those boxes?” One gloved hand gestured wildly at the debris. “Or how long it’s going to take to clean up this mess?”

“Take me.” Clint said, not quietly, but not aggressively either.

“What?” The anger had not dissipated from Coulson’s voice, not at all, but now there was confusion mixed in.

“How long it’s going to take me to clean up the mess.” Still direct without being confrontational.

“You can’t fix this by sweeping up all the pieces, you dick! Who brings a FUCKING DOG into a secure military installation? What the hell is wrong with you? Some of these parts are irreplaceable!”

Clint scowled at this. He had tried to offer an olive branch, offered to clean up the mess, but the man was being unreasonable. “Look, no one died so just calm the fuck down. I said I’d clean it up and I will! I’ll replace what I can, and for the rest of the stuff I- I dunno man, you can break something of mine, to even it out?”

“-Break your damn dog.” The reply was muttered but Clint’s aids were good, designed by Stark himself.

“Look, fuck you. Lucky is a service dog and-”

“Then he should know better than to run off into dark places and leave you alone! Your file didn’t say anything about a service dog, and I’ve never seen a one eyed dog as a service animal either.” Coulson’s tone was accusing now.

“Ok, he’s not like, an official service dog. Or that good about leashes. But I need him, he’s my family, alright? So you just go off to the realm of uptight jerks for a few hours, and I’ll get this cleared up. But don’t you dare touch Lucky!”

Coulson’s anger seemed to leave him and he deflated. “Look, I- I’m sorry about saying that. This stuff is important to me, it’s all part of Lola, and Lola is important to me. I would never- I’d never hurt an animal. Ever.” He started to gesture with his hands then just sort of stared morosely at his left hand, the prosthetic one. “I’m having a hard time-”

“Just give us some space.” Cutting him off, Clint didn’t want to feel bad for this guy, who was so clearly NOT his match. He brushed past the man and clapped his hands on his thighs, a sound Lucky sometimes deigned to respond to. That day it worked and the scruffy face appeared around an entirely different shelving unit than the one that fell. Knocking the shelf over must have freed the leash because he jogged confidently back to Clint and flopped at his feet.

When Clint turned around, Coulson had slunk off and he was alone in the bay.

 

Phil stood just outside the door, face in hands, for many minutes before he walked away.


	7. Dear Abby / Director Fury

* * *

 From: ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.gov

To: ‘DrFry’ FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov

 

Director Fury,

~~I can’t~~

~~Agent Coulson and I~~

_Fuck_.

 

Clint Barton

 

↣↣WORLD’S GREATEST MARKSMAN! ↤↢

 

**_Saved as Draft 12:14am_ **

* * *

 

 

Clint laid his head down on his crossed arms to rest. The mess had been extensive and it had taken over two hours for him to finish separating the salvageable bits from the trash.  Since then he had been trying to compose a professional email to explain to Fury that this partnership thing just wasn’t going to work out.  

 

“You have mail.” Clint’s eyes snapped open; he had fallen into a light doze sitting at the desk. The old school email notification had been Nat’s idea; she liked all the retro pop culture shit from the 90’s. He refreshed the screen to read the message.

 

* * *

 

From: CoulsonPhilCoulson@SHIELD.gov

To: ‘unlimited miscreant’ FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov

Cc: ‘not lucky’ ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.gov

 

Director Fury,

It has come to my attention that Agent Barton and I began our partnership on a somewhat challenging note. In the interest of providing a corrective to said situation, please find the attached paperwork certifying “Lucky” as Agent Barton’s service dog. As per Federal regulations, Lucky now requires a service vest and lanyard to be worn on base at all times. I’ve already notified Agent Koenig.

Philip J. Coulson

 

One day you wake up and realize, this is my circus and those are my monkeys!

Attachment:  LuckyBarton2015Certificate.docx

* * *

Huh. That was… unexpectedly thoughtful of him. Clint had been meaning to get around to trying to register Lucky for a few years; he figured it would make it easier to find housing and other services for them both. This guy had just swooped in a presented him with a fait accompli. It was pretty impressive, actually, given that it had only been- Clint checked his clock- 5 hours since their clash.

  
  


Maybe Coulson wasn’t a stone cold cactus.

 

 

 

 


	8. ...makes the world go ‘round

A few days later, both Agents stood in the storage bay. Lucky was napping on a tartan purple dog bed Coulson had strategically put in the center of a corral of boxes. Clint was examining a diagnostic design on a wall, keeping the other man in the corner of his vision at all times. 

Phil cleared his throat. “Ah… Agent Barton, if you would care to help me?” He indicated a box on the top of a metal rack. “My hand’s still not quite, uh, ready for delicate work yet.”

Clint easily obliged though the box Coulson had pointed out was heavier than it looked. He flipped open the lid and pulled out a- gyroscope? The gyro’ was light enough, made of some kind of ferrous-mixture metal, but had a weighted buckyball in the center. But a whole box of them?

“What are these for?” Clint finally gave into his curiosity and asked. 

“Each appendage of the jaeger is independently stabilized, that’s common across each model. The L-series was special in that, because of the levitation properties, each appendage auto-rotates to sync with the pilots’ perspective-” Coulson definitely kept talking but that was as far as Clint followed. 

Clint waited a few moments then raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ok, guy, I don’t need to know the history of the designer of the gyroscope to fix ‘em. Just tell me what needs to be done.”

Coulson stared at him coolly. “You can call me Coulson. Or Agent.”

“Shit,” Clint thought, “I’ve already pissed him off again.” 

Coulson seemed to realize his tone had been pointed and continued hurriedly. “The gyros need to be calibrated. By hand, if possible. I have the specs laid out for you plus the tools, on the desk next to, uh, next to Lucky’s new bed.” Ducking his eyes with this last, Coulson’s ear tips flushed. He was trying.

“Got it, Agent.” Clint grinned to show that no offence had been taken, and hefted the container onto one shoulder. He swung each leg in turn over the makeshift corral and found the information on a clean desktop, behind which sat a retro striped chair. 

The next 3 hours were spent in fascination at the minute adjustments that each gyro required to come to true consistently. He still wasn’t 100% sure why this was important, but chances were that someone’s life could be impacted by how well or how poorly he performed this maintenance. Also, it was a great way to show Coulson that he could take direction, cooperate, and listen so he was willing to repeat the same tedious process a few times. 17 hours. 

…

After 3 days of recalibrating what had to be hundreds of gyroscopes, Clint no longer felt so inclined. Every day was the same; he’d show up after breakfast and Coulson would already be there. Clint would sit in the striped chair; which though stylish, lacked lumbar support. He hadn’t realize how many of these stupid gyroscopes there were on the racks; it seemed like an entire row had to be dedicated just to them. 

 

The only upside, if there was one at all, was the last 3 minutes of every day. The first night Clint had stubbornly refused to stop before Coulson did, even though the archer was well past bored and Lucky had been giving him meaningful looks for the past 20 minutes. 

“Five more minutes, buddy, then we'll throw in the towel.” Clint reassured the dog, and himself. “How much longer can the man go? He's not a machine. Well, mostly not.”

A few minutes later Phil did appear, tie loosened and shoulders slumped. But as soon as he saw Clint, he straightened. 

“Agent Barton, my apologies, I didn't realize you were still here.” He glanced at Lucky. “doesn't he need to…?” Here his voice trailed off and he made a quick hand gesture that was probably meant to say something between ‘walk’ and ‘piss’. 

“Nah, we hit the head after lunch, he's used to my keeping long hours.” Clint kept a serious face up to cover his astonishment that Coulson continued to be so thoughtful, not simply to him but to Lucky. 

Phil nodded his understanding. Then he glanced at the carefully situated gyros.   
“Are those all calibrated?” His voice betrayed surprise.

“Yeah, man. You wanna check ‘em?” Clint’s pride bristled but he very much wanted to show Coulson that he could be trusted with more than just busy work. 

A sharp glance from Coulson showed that the man had heard the suppressed irritation, but he was choosing not to have that conversation at the moment. After a few moments spent carefully inspecting the gyros. Coulson turned to face Clint, a smile spreading across his face like warm honey. His eyes sparkled and there were small wrinkles of pleasure at the corners.

“These are great, Clint!”

It was the first time Clint had heard his given name cross those lips, and to hear it in such a tone! Heat blossomed in the pit of Clint’s stomach, fiercely reminding him of the strength Coulson had displayed in their sparring match. 

“There are only two more boxes so it shouldn’t take more than a few days for you to get them all done! This is terrific; I was sure I’d have to send them out to Hashi to get them right, and the turnaround time would be a nightmare, even if I-” Phil paused, recollecting himself.. “Well, that’s immaterial now. I have you! Good job again, Clint. Have a pleasant evening!” And Coulson took his smile out the door with him, to beam on some other lucky guy, Clint guessed

“Ok, Lucky, time to go.” As if he had been waiting for those very words, the dog displayed more activity than he had all day by dashing to the ingress/egress spot in his corral and letting out one eloquent “Woof!”. 

“You’re right. Pizza is definitely called for.”

And that had been the pattern, for three unintermidible days. Show up, fix gyros. Take Lucky out, grab lunch, more gyros. Coulson would check one or two every evening as he headed out, and then lavishly praise Clint before disappearing until the next morning. 

Clint had kind of rolled through the other 23 hours and 57 minutes of each day, living for the few minutes when Coulson turned that dazzling grin and approbation in his direction. It was like being transported to some tropical island; Clint felt incandescent, validated. 

Regardless, Clint wasn’t even slightly upset to find himself looking at the bottom of the last empty box midway through the fourth day. After a quick stretch, he set off to prowl deeper into the dimly lit bay, to search for Coulson. Ostensibly this was to garner a new assignment, but he was also trying to get a better idea of the scope of the job ahead of them. Six months would be a long time to sit at a desk and fiddle with tiny, delicate things.

“How far back does this place go?” Clint wondered aloud, letting out a whistle. The ceiling was at least 30 feet up, with rafters he was itching to climb. He had walked, not slowly, for at least 5 minutes before he heard Coulson cursing colorfully, and turned to ferret out the other agent’s location.

“Nun-touching cock-monkey!” A metallic “thunk” issued, followed by another expletive.

Coming around the high corner of what seemed to be the Jaeger’s shattered faceplate, Clint could see Phil, crouched amidst a pile of… somethings. What little hair he had was half sweatily sticking to his head, half standing up in disarray. He had his arms around some type of giant ball bearing and was trying to lift the thing into his arms. His gloved hand didn’t have good traction it seemed, because that was the side that slipped out of his grasp first, repeating the “thunk” Clint had heard a few moments earlier. Cue more epithets.

“Hey.” Clint hadn’t exactly meant to move silently, but Coulson had clearly been pretty preoccupied, and so jumped when he heard the unexpected voice.

“Oh! Clint, hi there. I was just- I was trying to pick up this ball bearing. It seems to have other plans of staying with its friends.” Phil made a small, self deprecatory laugh at his own poor attempt at humor. “How are the gyroscopes coming along?”

“All done, bossman. Wanna check ‘em?” 

“Sure, just give me one minute to get this thing sorted.” Phil bent down again, clearly intending to repeat his mistake. 

“Wait, uh- Phil. I can- maybe, I can help you?” Clint hadn’t meant to sound so uncertain. He just wanted to show Phil that he had more use than some button-polisher. Why did this man always manage to put him on the wrong foot?

Coulson met his eye, assessing, then said, “Well, I guess it is stupid to keep fucking it up all by myself. Knock yourself out.”


	9. Don't. Touch. Lucky.

Clint knew that despite Coulson’s trauma, accident, and obsession with a long scuttled L-class Jaeger, there were many in SHIELD who resented his being paired with a rookie right out of the academy. Thus it was not at all surprising that Clint had noticed a certain amount of heated discussion that ended as soon as he rounded a hall corner, or that he could feel glares of jealousy on the back of his neck in the mess hall. 

He had actually expected there to be a confrontation sooner, either with the brunette, bespectacled woman in her late 30’s who made a habit of moving out of his way just a fraction later than was polite. Or maybe with the short, bald man who everyone referred to as Rocket Romano and seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. He too had one prosthetic hand, and may have thought that would give him an insight and edge on being assigned as Coulson’s new co-pilot. 

It was neither of these fine agents who stuck out one huge, booted foot in the rec room and tripped Clint that tuesday. Well, attempted to trip Clint. You can take the boy out of the circus, and all that. Clint easily dodged the slip, but the owner of the boot over compensated for the expected impact and ended up grazing Lucky’s head as he trailed behind Clint. 

Clint… He went redline. He hadn’t seen the collision, but he had heard the dog’s small grunt of discomfort and had rounded on the man, feeling ready to rip up phone books. 

Rather than display any evidence that he was human, Mr Boots instead drawled, “Why doncha watch where yer goin’?” There may be some people in this world upon whom a Brooklyn accent sounds educated, erudite, or even sophisticated. This was not one of those. Mr Boots was your basic troll of a man. Heavy-set, in a way that you could tell would run instantly to fat the day he stopped following an intense workout program. Balding, bowlegged, and bedecked in incongruous gold chains, he really didn’t seem to fit in with the general SHIELD population. 

“The fuck did you do to my dog?” Clint growled. 

“You needa get em betta trained, boyo.” Mr Boots just kept a wide fake smile plastered on his face as he stood and crowded in Clint’s space. “Maybe you oughta ask yer batshit new par’ner, if you can get em outta that trashed piece a shit L-series.” The snicker that followed this monologue was entirely unflattering.

Clint inhaled, disgusted at the strong cloud of cologne surrounding Mr Boots. Fighting with this guy was a bad idea; he didn’t need Nat here to remind him that they were all on the same side now. 

“Don’t. Touch. Lucky.” Another deep breath. “And Lola isn’t trash. Coulson and I are going to fix her, and we’re going to protect people. So if you don’t mind getting out of my way, I have some kaiju ass to kick.”

Mr Boots had clearly been hoping for some kind of conflagration or explosion and was surprised enough to take the small step back that Clint needed to turn on his heel and scoop Lucky up in his arms on his way out. Had he just defended Coulson, in public?

Looking down as he left the mess behind, Clint said, “Lucky, we really need to either cut back on the greasy foods or increase our PT. You’re heavy, buddy.”

Lucky just stretched up and licked his cheek.


	10. Who watches the watchers?

* * *

From: FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov

To: ‘really fucker’ CoulsonPhilCoulson@SHIELD.gov

 

Phil,

Caught this on surveillance. Seems pertinent.

 

-Nick

 

Attachment: SHIELD_MESS_02_0937.mp4

 

There are two rules for success: 1. Never tell everything you know.  T. Toedter

* * *

Phil watched the video in his quarters later that evening. SHIELD had A/V recording going on everywhere, because they had started out as a spy organization. Someone was always watching.

 

He saw Clint restrain his natural impulse to attack Rumlow, heard him defend Lola, and by extension, Phil himself.

 

He tried not to see how the tactical pants lovingly clung to Clint’s ass as he stooped to pick up Lucky.

  
Phil also did not think about that ass for the long hours it took him to fall asleep that night. When he did find sleep, it was thin and full of dark things.


	11. Serious Spy Shit™

Clint was… well, Clint was doing what he always did when he couldn’t sleep. He was scoping out the air ducts. He wasn’t spying. Just... looking around. It never hurt to have an extra exit strategy. Or to gather extra intel on his temporary partner.

Ok, ok, he was spying. But not in the creepy stalker way; this was Serious Spy Shit™. He had finally figured out which ducts connected to the one for Coulson’s room.

Moving silently, Clint edged through the duct that crossed the corridor, when a noise stopped him. It had sounded like a - like a whimper?

It was too quiet to be a cry for help. He cocked his head and listened intently for a repetition, an increase, an alarm, anything that might indicate that he had been found out.

Nothing came. Clint considered turning back for the night. It was enough to have figured out the path to Coulson’s quarters; he didn’t need to actually ~~see if the guy slept naked~~ watch him sleep. And if the guy did happen to have an infrared camera aimed at his ceiling, he would certainly catch Clint in the not-so-cool act of lurking like a reverse Opera House Ghost. Without the mask. Or opera skills.

Options weighed, Clint ignored Nat’s voice in his head that urged him to “Spy more tactically, pridur.” He slithered forward on his belly, listening for any forthcoming clues that Coulson had twigged his presence.

Finally in front of a vent, Clint angled his body sideways and was able to peer with one eye into his partners sleep space. It was actually decorated pretty tastefully. The color scheme was all neutrals, with a few shots of blue for contrast. Above the bed hung a framed poster advertising “Captain America on Tour!” Even in the dim light, Clint could see Coulson’s feet sticking out from under the sheet.

The left foot contracted as he watched from the ventilation shaft. One arm, the whole one, was flung across the bed suddenly, accompanied by a incomprehensible sort of hissing curse. As Coulson twisted onto his back, Clint could finally see his face. He looked like he was … in pain?

Another mutter escaped the sleeping man. At last, Clint understood. Coulson was having a nightmare. His hand was clenching and releasing spasmodically now, and the muscles in his shortened arm were flexing in sympathy.

“...Please… we’re almost …. Cut it off!.... Don’t…. please…” Clint lay, motionless, listening to the scraps of conversation Coulson was having in his miserable dream. Sweat soaked through the grey tee the man was sleeping in, and the acrid smell of fear assaulted Clint’s nostrils even in the vent.

Suddenly Coulson’s whole body jerked and a wordless cry escaped. He sat up, eyes wide, clearly not sure of where he was. Clint held his breath and waited, watching. A quick glance around seemed to settle Coulson a bit, but he didn’t lay back down to sleep. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his back now facing Clint, and stripped off his sweaty top, tossing it into the corner of the room. His left hand made an aborted gesture, possibly to rub the perspiration off his forehead, but when he caught sight of his amputation, he lowered it, and used his right forearm to wipe his brow.

The broad freckled shoulders started to shake, but silently now. Coulson reached out with his right hand, the whole one, and grasped a pillow, pulling it to his face. A muffled scream still escaped, followed by a series of screams and sobs.

Somewhere behind Clint’s ribs, an ache had started to make itself known. He was pretty sure he hadn’t suddenly had a lung collapse, but it sure as hell felt that way. He didn’t want to risk making noise to give away his intrusion on Coulson’s privacy, so Clint didn’t actually chance rubbing his chest or testing a cough.

Eventually, the pillow was laid aside and Phil stood, shakily. He collected the soiled shirt from the corner, deposited it in a laundry bin, and made his way into the en-suite. Clint could see the light spill out and hear water running. He took this chance to tactically reverse in the vent and make his way back to his own quarters. A brief check proved his lungs and ribs were intact. The crushing pain wasn’t physical then. He was feeling for his- his partner. They were partners, he realized; or they could be, given a fair chance.

Clint fell asleep wondering about Coulson, about what happened to him, about what he thought they could actually do with an antique Jaeger, about how his eyes crinkled now when he smiled at Lucky...


	12. Outside Consultation

Clint is not a man given to introspection. He’s a doer, not a thinker. So when he decided to seek outside help in solving the Coulson conundrum, it was no small matter. He’d already exhausted his usual sources: Nat had replied with a one-word epithet (blyad!), and all of Katie-Kate’s internet savvy had failed to disclose any info on what might be keeping the good agent up with night terrors. There had been one brief byline in an unofficial after-action report:

“Jaeger B-U5, Pilots May and Coulson damaged post encounter Daikaiju Class VI, Nov 5. 2027.”

B-U5 was The Bus, and May was obviously Melinda May, Coulson’s former co-pilot. But because of drift compatibility, pilots just didn’t ‘break up’. Many pairs were romantic or sexual, but even when the romance fizzled out, or the sex dried up, pairs never split. There were even a handful of divorced teams still successfully fighting together. It was just something about drifting together, Clint figured. Once you got that deep in someone else’s head, you could understand their motivations and forgive an awful lot. Drift compatibility made the concept of ‘til death do us part’ literal. 

Except for Coulson and May, apparently. Their partnership hadn’t gone beyond the platonic from what Kate had been able to dig up. Yet May was gone (but not deceased according to her current assignment “pending”), and Coulson was… damaged. The report had that part dead to rights. Who’d ever heard of a Class VI, either? The whole situation was a mess and Clint wanted, no, needed to know more. If he had any hope of seeing action and not flaming out immediately, he had to figure out what had befallen Coulson’s last op, make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

Despite being Not-a-researcher, Clint had been willing to follow Kate’s lead when she directed him to talk to Deputy Director Maria Hill. What Kate hadn’t been willing to discuss was how Clint was expected to get Hill to tell him anything, on or off the record. 

Which was how Clint ended up awkwardly holding out a cup of coffee (hazelnut with one tsp raw sugar, no cream) to a woman who had her arms full of folders and her hands full holding a leather satchel and two StarkPads. 

“Coffee?” Clint hazarded, proffering the large to-go cup.

“Do I know you? Are you my new assistant?” Hill scanned him quickly, trying to place his face.

“Ah, no, I- uh, I’m a pilot? I mean, I will be, once I have something to pilot.” Clint tried to smile, to look like a friendly human type person instead of an uncomfortable weirdo. Understanding lit Maria’s face.

 

“Oh, right, you’re Phil’s new guy.” She laughed, almost losing hold of the StarkPads and folders.

“Would you mind if I just-” Clint didn’t finish, he just plucked one of the tablets from her hands and all of the folders, replacing them with the coffee. “Now we’re more balanced.” He finally managed a real smile, and while Hill didn’t return it, the wariness had left her eyes a bit, 

“Fine. Follow me, please.” They walked together, without speaking, down a few corridors until they arrived at her office. Clint could tell it was hers because there was a wall plaque besides the door that said “Deputy Director M. Hill. No solicitation, resignations or elimination permitted.”

Hill tapped the access code into the keypad and the door whooshed open. Clint figured that meant he was allowed to enter as well. She carefully laid the folders down in her inbox tray, put the coffee beside her planner, and plugged in the tablet. Then she took the stuff Clint had carried for her and put each item in its own spot as well. Finally, she sat behind her desk and sipped her coffee. Clint knew this was not an invitation for him to sit as well. 

Hill addressed him. “So you know how I take my coffee. Big deal. What do you want?”

Clint’s brain got a bit sputtery at that, and it took a moment for him to refocus. “I want information. On Coulson.”

Maria raised one eyebrow. “What kind of information? Phil and I may not be besties but there’s no way I’m selling him out for coffee this cheap.”

“I’m not asking you to sell him out. Actually, I just want your help.” Clint sighed, then continued. “We’re partners. And it’s going… well, it’s going. But I don’t know what happened to him, to his hand, why his old partner is gone, and I think I need that information if we’re going to be working together. And that coffee wasn’t cheap.” Not all of this had been clear to Clint before he started speaking, but as often happened, he figured it out on the fly. And the coffee had cost him nine bucks.

Hill nodded and took another sip. “You got scammed on the coffee if you paid more than seven. I retract my previous statement, I’ll answer your questions if I think they’re mission relevant.”

She still hadn’t told him to sit, so Clint stayed standing. Clearly, this wasn’t going to be a long heart-to-heart. 

Hill let a beat of silence draw out before heaving a put-upon sigh. “Just ask already, Barton.”

When had he told her his name? No matter, he needed answers about Coulson. “So, I mean, obviously- he lost his hand right?”

“Is that your first question? Did he lose his hand? Why am I bothering to even talk to you?” She started to swivel her chair away from him, but he persisted.

“No, I wasn’t done! Coulson- uh, he lost his hand, but the records are- they’re unclear. A Daikaiju is mentioned, but there are no official listings for what a Daikaiju is. And May isn’t around to ask. And I’ve never heard of a partnership ending like that, with no one dead or, well, anyway, what happened to him, to them?” Clint inhaled deeply, having used up all his breath on the blurted questions.

Maria swung her chair back to face him, watching him closely for a moment before nodding. “There are no listings for Daikaiju because Coulson, May and The Bus were the first to meet one. But our squints are fairly certain we’re going to be seeing more of them in the future, a lot more. The Bus was on a routine mission checking the integrity of the barriers on the Miracle Mile. There hadn’t been any readings, the Emergency Alert System was totally silent. But there it was, 9 stories tall and twice as ugly.”

Transfixed, Clint asked, “Did they stop it? They must’ve, right?”

“Yeah, they did. Finally. It took out their communication array first, somehow it knew to target that area. So by the time anyone noticed they were late, they had been taking a beating for a few hours.”

He could picture it in his mind, barely. Eons of taking a beating from the biggest, meanest kaiju anyone had ever seen. No one to call for help, just the two of them in the drift, fighting to protect the whole world. Alone and hurt. Knowing they couldn’t possibly win, that this was a sacrifice play...

“Eventually we did realize though, and we sent help. The closest Jaeger was The Hulk, with Doctor Banner and Colonel Rhodes.”

“Two weren’t enough though, were they?” 

“No. It took five of our strongest Jaegers to take down that thing. We’re just really lucky no one died. The injuries were horrific enough.” Hill paused to take another swallow of her coffee. “Tastes like shit if I let it get cold. You’ve seen Coulson’s hand. May lost her sight, kaiju blue doesn’t react well if you splash it in someone’s eyes. The other pilots- survived. Now we know what’s coming. And we know we’re not ready. So we couldn’t let Coulson sit on the sidelines, not once his body had healed. We need him, And you. Hell, we need everyone.”

Clint nodded slowly. “Ok. I need to process. Thanks for the info. I owe you.”  
-  
“Buy me a decent cup of coffee next time, or you know, go save the world. Either way, we’ll be even.”


	13. Clint Barton’s Patented Seduction Plan

A few weeks passed, where Phil and Clint kept their heads down and worked assiduously on Lola. The entire ‘torso’ power section was back online, only lacking the working upgraded arc reactor power core Stark had promised was forthcoming: “This week, totally!” The upgraded anti grav nodes on Lola’s ‘legs’ were in place and on a good day both even worked at the same time.  

 

Clint had spent the better part of a week stripping the wiring out of the control unit located behind Lola’s ‘eyes’. It had all been degrading the whole time Lola had been in storage, shorts everywhere. So Clint had to follow every single wire and test each every few inches. He hadn’t realized quite how much wiring there was in a control unit- it wasn’t miles, it was marathons worth of wiring. At least it was fairly mindless; his mind was occupied on a special project.

 

Coulson hadn’t been slacking off either. He had disappeared for 3 days and then reappeared with brand new pendular sockets for both the ‘leg’ and ‘arm’ components. Clint hadn’t been able to get Coulson to tell him where he had actually managed to beg, borrow, or steal them from.

 

They had both been pulling 18+ hour days. Clint, because he was worried about Hill’s warning about the Daikaiju; Phil because he wasn’t sleeping well in the few hours he did manage to drop off. Clint didn’t have to spy on Coulson’s bunk to tell that; he could read it under the man’s eyes, hear it in his scratchy voice every morning.

 

Late one night, as Clint continued to trace and test yet another endless mile of wiring, Lucky decided enough was enough. Sleeping all day, eating dinner, then sleeping all night was all well and good, but once in awhile even an older canine wanted a break. He slunk over to Clint and pressed his wet nose up under the man’s underarm, where it was exposed in a gray wifebeater tank.

 

The desired effect was instantaneous. Clint leapt up and yelped. “Hey!” He glared accusingly at Lucky, who whined plaintively and gave puppy dog eyes. Well, eye.

 

“Ok, ok, I hear you. Enough for today, right?” As Clint straightened from his hunched over position, his back ached fiercely. With a groan, he bent forward, reaching for his toes to loosen up his back. From behind, the vantage was breathtaking, as evinced by Coulson’s choked noises as he came up from the back of the bay.

 

Clint snapped up and turned before the fit of coughing had ended, rushing over to pound Coulson on the back a few times.

 

“Hey, easy man, are you ok?” Clint asked with genuine concern in his tone.

 

“Yes, sorry.” Phil wheezed out. “Just a touch of asthma from all this dust and crap in the air. M’ fine.”

 

Hawkeye wasn’t buying it. Plus the suspicious bulge in his work pants. Combine that with the lack of sleep, and Clint could tell himself it was pure self interest that motivated his next statement.

 

“Come to mine, Lucky wants pizza, I’m great at ordering in, we can watch some tv, chill out a bit?” All the words spilled from Clint’s mouth in a rush.

 

Coulson peered at him, assessing the intent behind the offer, before he grudgingly replied.

“Lucky’s pretty smart. Pizza and TV sound terrific, actually.”

 

“Great. Great! Ok. So my place. Just don’t- you know, open any drawers or closets or anything. I can’t be responsible for what Lucky may have hidden in the couch cushions either.”

 

Nervousness and anxiety kept Clint babbling the whole time that they packed their few personal items up and headed down the halls to his quarters.  The steady flow of apologies and jokes were automatic; in his head he was cataloguing all the potentially embarrassing things in his place, from the dirty dishes in the sink to the conspicuous and value sized bottle of lotion on his bedside table.

 

As they arrived in front of Clint’s quarters, Phil put a hand on Clint’s forearm, stopping him from keying open the door. “Are you sure you want me to come in? Because I’m covered in-” He waved a hand to indicate all manner of mechanical fluids and sweat covering his faded work jeans.

 

“What? No, of course I want you! You’ll fit right into my mess, it’ll be fine!” Clint hadn’t realized what he’d said until he saw the tips of Phil’s ear flush. It was his tell, and nearly invisible unless you stood the same height, which Clint did.

 

“Shit, I mean-” Clint started but Phil shushed him. “Hey, it’s ok, I know what you meant. Lead the way, I was promised pizza.”

 

* * *

 

Pizza was indeed procured swiftly, and after bonding over their shared love of World War Two documentaries (Ok, Clint may have exaggerated on the documentary thing, but he had seen at least one on HBO that had hot, half-naked men in it, hitting his basic criteria for good media) as well as Dog Cops, the two settled themselves on opposite ends of the couch, a loveseat with delusions of grandeur, and began to eat. Lucky ceeded the couch to the pair and instead laid on a pile of what Phil sincerely hoped was dirty laundry.  

 

Once the pizza disappeared with an uncanny alacrity, Clint sat with his far arm on the armrest of the couch and his other hand, palm down, on the no-man’s-land of the space between them. There were mere inches between his left hand and Phil’s right, as he unconsciously mirrored Clint’s position.

 

Clint could _feel_ the warmth of Phil’s hand across the space. For a moment he debated, then gave in, slowly letting his hand slide closer until they were nearly touching. At last, Clint closed the gap, letting his pinky finger brush Phil’s thumb. As he shakily released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, he shot a quick look at Phil’s face.

 

He was asleep!  When had that happened?

 

Clint exhaled slowly. No response.

 

Next he experimentally slid his hand fully over Coulson’s, at the ready to jerk it back at the slightest sign of awareness.

 

Nothing!

 

Clint was at a crossroad. He could do the honorable thing here, respect appropriate work/life boundaries and keep his dirty mitts to himself. Or he could give in to the weird urge that had over taken him, to scootch over and rest his head on Phil’s leg, close his eyes, and breath in the scent of him, both the dust of the day and the unique scent of the man.

 

There was no question, really. Clint pulled his hand back, rearranged himself like only an ex-circus kid could, and slowly lowered his head to lay in Coulson’s lap. His eyes briefly met Lucky’s.

 

“Shhh. I just want to try it out.”

 

Lucky blinked his eye once, slowly, then laid himself back down on the formerly-clean laundry.

 

* * *

 

He was warm. Something- no- someone, was gently running their fingers over his head, from his forehead to the base of skull, then repeating the motion. It felt fantastic. Clint slowly blinked open his eyes. An expanse of denim met his gaze. Whose…?

 

Shit. He’d fallen asleep. He’d fallen asleep _in Coulson’s **lap**_. Muscles tensed, his mind began to supply bogus excuses such as narcolepsy to explain his behavior. Or maybe he’d just go with terminal idiocy.

 

“It’s fine,” a voice from above said conversationally. “I don’t mind at all.” The hand never stopped petting him.

 

“How did you know what I was thinking? How are you ok with this?” Clint ventured. He didn’t actually want to move.

 

“I just kind of imagined how I would feel in your place. First really good, then really scared. “

 

“That about sums it up.”

 

“Like I said. It’s fine.”

 

“Do you uh… get this friendly with all your copilots?” He couldn’t help the note of uncertainty that crept into his voice. He was giving the guy an out, maybe this was just Coulson’s way of showing camaraderie.

 

The fingers running through his short hair paused for a moment, then resumed.

“Are you asking me if I was involved with Melinda beyond a platonic level?”

 

“Maybe.” Clint admitted.

 

“We were not. Melinda is and has been married to a man named Doctor Andrew Garner. He’s in the Inhuman Intelligence Department at the Academy.”

 

“Oh! I’ve met him- very chill dude.”

 

“Yes. Andrew is a dear friend, as is Melinda. But it never went beyond friendship. We were always a very low match percentage for co-piloting, only an 81.”

 

“Oh.” Pause. “What’s our percentage again?”

 

“94 percent. That’s really unprecedented in two people who aren’t already close.”

 

“94. So that explains why you’re letting me drool on your leg?”

 

“Well, no.”

 

“Mmm?” Clint made a noncommittal humming noise to hopefully encourage Coulson to explain.

 

“While the drooling is unfortunate, I- I like having you here, spoiling you.”

 

Clint regretfully shifted so he could get a look at Phil’s facial responses as he spoke.

 

“I like being here “ Dilated pupils. Accelerated breathing. “I’d like to- ah, fuck.”  Clint gave up trying to use words; words had never been his strongest suit. He stretched up, telegraphing his moves, aiming to meet Coulson’s lips with his own.

 

“ _Atishoo_!”  Phil sneezed in his face.

 

Clint couldn’t help it. He burst into laughter at the surprise and irritation on Coulson’s face until Phil too caught the giggles and both men were lost in gasping and snorting at the situation.

 

“ _Atishoo_! _Atishoo_!” Clint buried his face in Phil’s soft, warm stomach just to smother his peals of laughter.

 

“I think I’m allergic to Lucky.” Phil sounded seriously upset about the situation.

 

“It’s fine; I usually bathe him in the hypo allergenic stuff, but we’ve been so busy, I might have missed a week.” Clint admitted.

 

“ _Atishoo_! I’d better go- take an allergy pill or something. This is terribly embarrassing, Clint, I am so sorry.”

 

“To quote some guy I know, it’s fine.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. _Atishoo_! See you tomorrow.” As the two headed to the door, there was a palpable something in the air. Unresolved stuff. But Coulson just stiffly clapped Clint on the shoulder and left, avoiding the awkward doorway pause entirely.  

 


	14. Between the Imagined and the Real

In the end, Lola stood before them, candy apple red and shiny with the chrome accents that Phil had insisted on.

 

Clint remember shyly approaching him and holding out the plans he had more for the special modifications. Phil had appraised them carefully and smiled. “Sound planning, Barton.”

 

It had taken time, sweat and more than a little blood spilled on sharp edges. Plus 3 burns, uncountable bruises and more hours than Clint cared to enumerate. But she was done.

 

Mostly. They had yet to actually drift together, to let Lola test her wings outside of auto pilot maneuvers inside the bay. But both men felt that they were waiting for some outside signal to take this final step. Perhaps it was some awkwardness infused into their physical interactions since the night on Clint’s couch.

 

Even Fury had been down to see Lola, though not while they were present. It would have felt too much like an inspection. Instead he sent them notice via his usual methods.

 

* * *

 

From: FuriousNick@SHIELD.gov

To: ‘stay out of the vents! ’ [ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.gov](mailto:ClintBartonIsAwesome@SHIELD.gov), ‘really fucker’ CoulsonPhilCoulson@SHIELD.gov

  


Agents Coulson and Barton,

Your progress on the L-series refit has been adequate to date. I have concerns about Agent Barton’s additions to the original chassis and deportment programming; however, until you two idiots actually fucking drift, I won’t know how bad of an idea it really is. What are you waiting for?

(That’s not a question; It’s a thinly veiled order.)

 

Director Fury

 

P.S. The dog stays on base. Absolutely no canines in the pilot rig area.

  
There are two rules for success: 1. Never tell everything you know.  T. Toedter

 

* * *

 


	15. An Adequate Excuse

They’d gotten the message.

 

Well, no.

 

Coulson and Barton had gotten the _email_.  Fury’s email. But they had each managed to continue to defer actually drifting together through a magnificent combination of bullshit, awkwardness, fear, a frisson of sexual tension and a healthy dose of misdirection.  

 

Plus, every time someone brought it up, Clint fled to the nearest air duct. (Heroically fled, he wishes to note.)

 

It was a Tuesday afternoon, so Clint and Phil assumed they were safe. It is a truth universally acknowledged that nothing exciting ever happens on Tuesday afternoons. Each man was somehow completely occupied with a non essential task: Coulson was pin-striping the accents on Lola’s hull, and Barton was re-calibrating the targeting mechanism. For the third time. Lucky was helpfully sleeping under Clint’s work chair, farting occasionally in his sleep.

 

“NEE-eu NEE-eu! NEE-eu NEE-eu! NEE-eu NEE-eu!” A klaxon blared, echoing through the work bay, as a blue strobe light flashed rudely.

 

“Shit!” Clint’s aids had overloaded on the level of sound so he deftly pulled them out, but there was nothing he could do about the lights that bothered his eyes. He stood and looked around quickly for Coulson. Usually, the blue strobe would mean it was their turn to handle a threat from the breach. But Lola wasn’t on the rotation yet… was she? He decided it was even more urgent to track down Phil. He’d seen the one handed man agilely grappling with a hanging rig about an hour ago, determined to get just the right detail on the Jaegers flanks.

 

Just as Clint determined he might actually need to take this alarm seriously, Coulson came jogging around the corner. He was still wearing the hanging harness, but it didn’t seem to be impeding his movement much. Just outlining… certain areas.

 

A hand grabbed his shoulder.  Clint could see his name on the other man’s lips, and kept his left hand still as he brought his right hand downward as if striking the left index finger, then pointed to his ears. Phil realized Clint had his aids out and grabbed a note pad and pencil from his breast pocket, scratching out a message:

 

 

 

> Need to go.

 

As Clint read the note, Phil spread the first and second fingers of his right hand like a rude gesture and motioned between the two men.

 

_Yeah, right, ok, ‘us two’. This was fine. They could drift for the first time under battle conditions. No problem. Coulson’s PTSD and his own lack of experience were going to make this a cinch._

 

Coulson read the hesitation in his features. Phil grabbed his shoulders and mouthed slowly and distinctly: We Can Do This. I Am Ready. You Are Great.

 

A touch of red suffused Clint’s face as he comprehended that last bit but he shrugged out of Phil’s hands and jerked his head towards the cockpit. Coulson followed, unstrapping the climbing harness as they walked, then climbed, into their rigs. Shielded by Lola's thick metal skin the alarm would be dampened, so Clint chanced quickly popping his aids back in.

 

The automated processes began as soon as their retinas were scanned; the relay gel immediately filled their faceplates. Lola had been fully powered up for Clint’s modifications and testing. Both men stood on the metal floor, helmets in place, still wearing the grubby work clothes they’d been in all day.

 

“Neural Handshake: Initiating.” The computer voice spoke in both their heads simultaneously as the outside world blinked out and memories suffused the mental space they now occupied. In the Drift, being a purely metaphysical space as opposed to a physical one, Phil had both of his factory original hands and Clint could hear every echo.

 

Coulson tensed up, and Clint could see flashes of a smaller Asian woman laughing, then bleeding. The diffuse blue light surrounding them began to pulse, and Phil’s hands gripped into fists. His eyes were screwed shut and he had begun to mutter to himself.

 

“No hands. No eyes. No legs. No hands. No eyes. No legs.”

 

_Ok, this looks bad._

The Asian woman was now kneeling and keening, face covered by her hands, with what looked like blood flowing through her fingers. Now there was an afterimage of Coulson himself, in a dirt spackled pilot suit whose left arm abruptly ended, as the man wandered around looking dazed and lost.

 

Feelings of panic began to flow across the bridge, elevating Clint’s pulse and respiration rate. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man in a top hat towering over a small figure.

 

Clint knew that Coulson was decompensating rapidly, triggered by the Neural Handshake process and now it was spreading from Phil’s mind to his. If they both descended into panic, they would either burn out their adrenal systems and hippocampi and suffer brain damage, possibly permanently; or in the worst case scenario, their minds would actually complete the bridge and then they’d have total control of a completely refurbished jaeger, but their senses would be distorted by delusions and phrenic torsions.

 

_Jeez, he must not have drifted at all since… since the last time._

 

He wasn’t sure what to do so he just said the words he had always longed to hear as a child.

‘It’s ok. I’m here now. I will keep you safe. I came to get you. It’s all ok now.’ Clint thought back to a book he’d read as a kid and a quote he’d particularly liked and said that too.

‘I will never hurt you. I will always help you. If you are hungry, I'll give you my food. If you are frightened, I am your friend. Let me help.’ He summoned an image of Phil with both hands intact, one flesh and one prosthetic, then grasped them in his own.

 

Through the physical contact he sent thoughts of safety, warmth and friendship.  
  
Phil’s eyes met his, warily. ‘Last time was- was bad. I don’t know if I can do this again.’

 

Clint reached into his own memories and pulled up a good one. It was the feeling of his first bullseye at the county fair, with his mom and Barney watching. It seemed to help Phil. Clint watched the feelings of confidence and pride flow to Coulson, watched the slight tremor in the left hand fade away.

 

‘Systems check, please, co pilot.’ Coulson was making eye contact again but now it was surer, more in control.

 

Clint ran through the routines he had programmed back in the Academy.

 

‘All systems green for go, Sir.’

 

‘Same here, pilot. Let’s go save some people.’

 

Alignment complete, they blinked in sync and were back in Lola, as the tall bay doors opened onto the sea for the first time, sunlight spilling in.

 

‘You were right about the pin-striping. Adds a certain something.’

 

‘I knew you’d get it.’

 

 


	16. He'd Make a Lovely Corpse

Nick Fury steepled his fingers as he studied the data coming to the screen inset in his desk.

Phil and the new kid were linked up. It had taken a little longer than usual, but it was their first time. He snorted at the imagery conjured.

“Tab A in Slot B, boys.”

 

But they’d managed. And this wasn’t a false alarm. Granted, they didn’t actually know the L-O1A had been put into the active classification status (since he’d only made the change 10 hours ago), but this was a milk run. Probably.

 

He considered activating extra backup, just in case, then discarded the notion. He’d seen the specs on the new weaponry they’d installed. Stark’s new power cell was top notch, though Nick would never tell Stark that. If things really did go pear-shaped, he had two teams on standby.

 

All he could do now was watch the long range telemetry and data stream in. If the World Council didn’t like his methods now, they had no idea what was coming down the line with the next phase of his plan. It hinged, however, on Coulson and Barton being the lynch pin, a smoothly operating high level team to set the tone.

 

An intercom sounded.

 

“DIrector?”

 

He sighed and touched the button to activate his  audio pickup.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s Wilson sir, he got mad during his psych evaluation and is threatening to take hostages.  Again.”

 

“Tell him that if he doesn’t finish his eval, we can’t find him a copilot. See if Jones is willing to take him out for Mexican, offer that. At least she can keep up with him.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

  
The audio pick up ended.  Fury returned his implacable gaze to his screen and waited.


	17. They will find our power quite impressive, for a few seconds.

The bay doors opened directly onto a concrete slip that sloped into the sea. Together, Coulson and Barton walked Lola out into the water, adjusting their steps to compensate for the drag of the water. The Jaeger was amphibious, so using the targeting data fed in from the Kaiju Alert System they could plan their attack while en route.

 

“12 minutes out, Si- err, Coulson. Coastal Defense Reports coming in suggest Class 2, no visual confirmation yet.” Clint’s nervousness was still in check, but he knew Phil could feel it through the neural relay.

 

“Class 2 is good, we can let Lola test out her wings, let you get some live action.” Coulson seemed almost cheery now, a stark contrast to his previous PTSD episode. Clint thought part of it was a facade, but Coulson was clearly more experienced in drifting and there was no way to be sure if he was still hiding something.

 

“I can feel you wondering, by the way.”

 

“What the- Wait, you can’t just read my mind?”

 

“No, Clint, I cannot just ‘read your mind’. But I can sense your emotions; you should be able to feel mine as well. It all come down to the interplay of neutrinos and- I can feel you tuning out.”

 

“Haha, yeah, sorry. I think I slept through most of Drift Mechanics.” Clint wasn’t even ashamed; that was the driest material known to man, all tachyons and neuroreceptors.

 

Phil sighed, “I shouldn’t be surprised; I felt the same way in Academy, couldn’t stand Neuropsych. Luckily for you, I did manage to study the material and while we’re linked you have access to most of what I know and feel, albeit subconsciously.”

 

Clint got a momentary flash of Phil, studying in his dorm room, in only his boxers. His prolific chest hair looked soft. This wasn’t a day dream, Clint realized with alarm, it was a memory. Phil’s memory. Then Clint realized the implications of having such thoughts while drifting and shot Coulson a wary glance.

 

Coulson looked amused. “Would you mind fantasizing about me when we’re not 3 minutes out from a Kaiju?”

 

“You don’t mind me fantasizing about you?”

 

“We can talk about it later, Clint. But no, as a general rule, I don’t mind. I thought piloting with you, petting your dog to whom I am highly allergic and heck, petting _**you**_ , might have demonstrated that fact? I just-”

 

“ **Target acquired**.” Lola’s weapons system had come online when they came into range of their prey.

 

“We _will_ finish this later. Work first.” Phil tried to reach Clint but all he got was mental static.

 

Clint was gaping.  It was his first live kaiju, and even though it was only a class 2, the beast was still imposing.  L-O1A stood nearly 75 meters tall, and the Kaiju easily topped her by 15 meters.

 

Its head split with a vertical grin, shiny with teeth dripping with slaver. Each half of the bifurcated head had its own pair of green, glowing eyes. The body followed the terrestrial jawed-vertebrate pattern, having two stubby arms ending in a profusion of claws of varying lengths, and two massive legs. The tail had resembled a Thlyacine’s, with thick musculature and a blunted end.

 

“That’s a- a-  that’s big!”  Clint was paralyzed, for the first time realizing what they were up against. Many pilots froze their first time out, and how their copilots handled the situation could mean life or death.

 

“Yes, Clint it is big but we’re here to stop it. Hang on a sec.” Coulson pulled up some data files from the bases system. “Yup, identification confirmed. We’ve got info on file. Here it comes.”

 

“ **Kaiju Identified: Class 2 Mongoose type. Known weaknesses: Shortened brachii and antebrachii. Strengths: Dual redundant brain cases. Uses tail to increase height**.” The automated voice announced.

 

“Clint? Hey, Clint, I need you here with me.” Phil reached out and touched Clint’s shoulder with his bare hand, trying to break through the other man’s shock bubble.

 

Clint felt the hand, distantly. Then he felt Phil in his mind, sort of sliding around his panic and then compressing it, until all he felt was Phil’s confidence, Phil’s appreciation, Phil’s- presence. The panic was still there, but it was smaller, less urgent.

 

He shook himself mentally, then saw Coulson watching him closely.

 

“I’m ok now, thanks.”

 

“We can do this Clint, but we have to be here, together.”

 

The Mongoose Kaiju had spotted them with is panoptical views and was lumbering in their direction through the sea.

 

“I am! I’m here; I’m ready. Let’s show the Mongoose Lola’s new skill set.”

With a grin, Clint activated the archery module he had so lovingly and meticulously crafted. He could feel Phil’s energy and agreement flow through the drift.

 

The Jaeger’s breastplate split open, and an enormous bow emerged from the front as a quiver clicked into place on Lola’s back. At the same time, a mock bow dropped down in front of Clint’s piloting rig.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Ready!”

 

The first arrow was loosed. It didn’t have a head shaped for piercing, at this size that would be impractical. Instead Clint had copied his various types of trick arrows and scaled them up. This was an acid tipped arrow, and as it flew past the kaiju’s head it scored both of the eyeballs on the left side of it’s bihemispheric head.

 

The monster roared its pain and advanced on them, speed increasing.

 

“Excellent shot, Clint!”

 

“I know, I know, save your applause until the end please.” Laughing, Clint shot a second arrow, this one with a net arrowhead aimed the Mongoose’s feet.

 

Although this was another direct hit (because, well, Hawkeye), the powerful legs ripped through the material and there was no decrease in speed.

 

“Ok, time to try-” Phil’s voice was cut off as the dispatcher from base spoke over him.

 

“ **Attention L-01A, we have reports of a civilian ship in the combat area. Repeat, civilians in the combat area**.”

 

“Shit!” Both men spoke in concert.

 

Coulson frantically scanned the area, trying to locate the small sea craft.

 

Then he saw it: a small red dinghy, illegally hauling in fish from the Breach area. The bulging nets dragged behind the ship as its woefully under-powered engine tried to escape the fight zone.

 

The craft wasn’t between Lola and the Kaiju, but it was nearby and getting buffeted by the waves created by each one's movements. Constantly crashing surges hit the boat from both sides, making it tilt dangerously back and forth.

 

Clint addressed Coulson, “We need to end this, and quickly. But if we let the Kaiju drop into the water, the waves will definitely flip the boat. How are we gonna…?” His voice trailed off. He had felt the spark in Phil’s mind, an idea forming.

 

“Lola's not just a collectible, you know. People tend to confuse the words ‘new’ and ‘improved.’ “ A grin formed on Coulson’s face.

 

“The anti grav thrusters! Of course!”

 

“The anti grav thrusters.” Phil agreed. “In other words, Lola can fly.”

 

 

 


	18. I'm a beast when you turn me on. Into the future cybertron.

The task at hand was to incapacitate and lift the Mongoose out of the sea without splashing too much toxic blood near the barge.

 

The Kaiju was currently lumbering towards them; there wasn’t enough time to discus and verbalize a plan.

 

Luckily, Clint and Phil had a better means of communication at hand; they had the drift.

 

Coulson visualized a quick sequence of images, knowing they would stream through the link to Clint.

 

_Colorful hot air balloon launching..._

_Clint’s muscles contracting and flexing in the sunlight as he aimed a bow..._

_Shot put thrower spinning on green grass to launch a throw..._

 

“Guess I’m not the only one fantasizing during work hours, huh?”

 

“Got the message across, didn’t it? Can you pull off the shot?”

 

“Can I? Hell yeah man, I got the plan. Anti grav thrusters are primed and ready on your signal.”

 

“3...2...1… Go!”

 

The L-01A’s entire bulk rose smoothly out of the sea, water sluicing off the shiny red paint job.  

 

Lola’s shadow fell across the bow of the boat, obscuring the sun as she seemed to levitate and accelerate to meet the Kaiju.  The men on board waved and cheered, not realizing that they were still very much in the path of danger.

 

Clint felt Phil send a query through the drift link, with urgency behind it; he responded with pure Barton cockiness.

 

The shooting array was still at hand, so he dialed up three cable arrows and three boomerang arrows. The net arrow had failed, but the tensile strength of the cable was exponentially greater, and with three of them capturing the kaiju, they should hold. Probably.

 

No way to tell until he tried, so as Phil took over altitude and directional guidance, Clint linked the cable and boomerang arrows into pairs and took aim with the first set.

 

_Steady… aim… SHOOT!_

 

The beast didn’t even notice that the first cable had hooked under its arms and returned to Lola, where the boomerang arrow docked and clamped. It kept turning its bisected head, trying to use its remaining pair of eyes to see any potential threats.

 

The next paired arrow snugged up to one of the monster's legs and the third pair looped around the base of its thick tail.

 

“We’re hooked in; ready to go up, up and away!” Clint confirmed verbally for Coulson, who had been slowing to keep slack out of the newly placed tow lines.

 

Finally, Lola had begun to slip backwards, and the monster seemed to cotton on to its dilemma. It stopped in its tracks and roared at the Jaeger, toxic blue spittle raining into the sea.

 

“Shit, shit, shit!”

 

The men on the small trawler had been standing on the deck, waving up, and now a quick glance confirmed that the blue had splattered one man; all the other backed away in fear from the dying sailor.

 

At least the lines were still- The Mongoose used its solid tail to lever itself into a weird tripod position, leaving its ‘arms’ free to swing at the line under its tail. The wickedly sharp claws were rapidly stripping the coating from the cables, soon it would break through and be loose again.

 

“Uh, Coulson, any ideas?”

 

Panicky distress was starting to form in the link, both men contributing and feeding it.

 

“Phil, should we call for backup?”

 

No response. Was he frozen, Clint wondered? More PTSD? He tried one more time to rouse the other man’s attention.

 

“Coulson, report!”

 

“Flamethrower.” Phil shook himself a bit then seemed to come all the way back. “We have a modified flamethrower.”

 

“Oh, that could be very useful!” Clint breathed a sigh of relief as their mental connection hummed with more positive feedback. Then he paused. “Modified how?”

 

“It’s based on a Livens Model, but that only got up to 2200 F. To cauterize a Kaiju, you need at least 2700 C. They aren’t carbon based, so-”

 

“-I took Kaiju physio too, you can skip ahead.”

 

“Right. Ok, so there aren’t that many things on earth that burn that hot. And even fewer we could harness as a mobile weapon.”

 

The lightbulb clicked on in Clint’s head.

 

“Plasma! Seriously? We have a plasma flamethrower on board and you didn’t think to mention it sooner?”

 

“Well, this was just supposed to be a simple Category 2, no civilians to worry about. I didn’t think we’d need it yet. Obviously it hasn’t been tested.”

 

“Aww, yeah, plasma! Let’s make some calamari!”

 

Almost casually, Coulson punched up the plasma equipage. The bow mechanism slid back into its recess and a 10’ bore port opened in the ‘palm’ of each of Lola’s ‘hands’.

 

Clint laughed, “You made Lola a plasma bender? Seriously, Phil, you are the coolest nerd I know.”

 

This time it wasn’t just the tips of Phil’s ears that turned pink; it was his entire face blooming as he squirmed with a combination of embarrassment and pleasure. Clint lost focus for a moment, imaging how Phil would be in bed, how he would have this same rosy glow when Clint’s fingers were insi-

 

“No fantasizing until we kill this thing!”

 

“Right, right, sorry.”

 

“You aren’t a bit sorry.”

 

“You’re right, I’m really not.”

 

“The sooner we dispatch the Mongoose the sooner we get to shower.”

 

“And after we shower?”

 

“Don’t you mean, ‘and _while_ we shower’?”

 

Clint’s brain went offline then for a moment, lost in the possibilities of the two of them, wet, naked and slippery. Then he snapped out of it, regretfully.

 

“Kill the monster. Got it.”

 

Moving together, the two men took aim with their hands. Violet streams shot out and thick ropey coils landed on the kaiju. Everywhere one landed it quickly burned and ate through the monster’s flesh. Intent on preventing a repeat of the spitting incident, they trained the weapon on the creature's head and soon the remaining eyes and pernicious mouth had been charred away.

 

One claw tipped arm fell into the sea, cauterized by the heat of the plasma. Clint released his cables, and Phil lowered Lola back into the water carefully. No acts of derring-do or flying maneuvers would be required today. Alas.

 

The rest of the Mongoose soon slipped under the waves. Once the Kaiju stopped thrashing in the water, the small boat was able to drag their illegal catch and the body of their fallen brethren into safer ports.

 

A clean up crew was already on its way, carried on the largest repurposed aircraft carrier the world had ever seen. They would use nets to haul the toxic body parts away for experimentation and safe disposal.

 

Clint scanned the body a final time; they couldn't afford to be careless.  A few poor pilots had failed to check the bodies of fallen kaiju and missed embryonic offspring busily clawing their ways out of their dead host mothers. The carnage was usually horrendous. It would be an ignominious start to Lola’s new reputation.

 

The Mongoose hadn’t been pregnant; two internal gonads suggested it was male, though researchers weren’t 100% clear on the reproductive cycles.

 

They were in the clear. It struck Clint then that not only had they bagged their first kaiju together, they'd saved real people. Then men on that boat would never forget the cherry red Jaeger that flew, shot arrows, and using plasma to take down a monster out of their worst nightmares.  Hopefully the captain would be more careful about where he trawled in the future. Probably not.

  
Pensive, Clint and Coulson piloted Lola back to the base in silence. 


	19. Pure Treacle

As the two men situated Lola in the repair and recharging cradle, Phil saw that Clint was bouncing lightly on his toes even while he disconnected from the piloting rig.

 

“Are you ok, Clint?” They weren’t linked anymore, had disconnected as part of taking off the rig, so Phil couldn’t just reach out and scan his emotions for clues.  This could be nerves; it could be pleasure; it could even be a symptom of an autoimmune response to the drift.

 

The bouncing had graduated to small hops with every step they took through the workspace. Clint seemed startled when he realized what he was doing, but made no overt effort to stop his body’s movement.

 

“How do you handle this on a regular basis, Phil? It’s like- it’s like what I felt when I did the high dive solo, being in the air and free and flying even as I was falling. Is this what it’s like to take speed?”

 

“I really wouldn’t know about the drugs.” Phil responded mildly. “We all develop our own methods of coping. You’re just keyed up from your first kaiju kill. ”

 

“It’s not just that, man!”

 

They had reached the open doors of the R&R bay, which opened onto the ocean. The sun was was nearing the horizon and the clouds were opalescent. Phil waited for the other man to continue, knowing there was more.

 

“Taking out the Kaiju was great, don’t get me wrong. More than great! Like, amazing. But it was more than that- it was Lola. And it was the plasma, and my arrows working, and the chrome, and the drift, and- “ Clint faltered.

 

“And?” Phil raised one eyebrow in question, as the two stood and faced each other in front of the magnificently setting sun.

 

Clint shook his head, words failing him, and stared at his workboots, still dusty from the morning’s work. The other thing he had felt was enormously grateful, to be able to work with this man who fit him so well.

 

“I felt it too, Clint.”

 

Clin peeked up and saw Coulson’s eyes twinkling with- affection? How had this amazing person been matched with him, an ex-carney who had like, 2 skills in the whole world, and one old dog?

 

Phil reached out with his real hand, gently touching Clint’s jaw, tipping his face up. Their eyes met and something passed between them. Then, slowly, telegraphing his moves so Clint could avoid him if he wanted to, Phil pressed his lips to Clint’s.  

 

It was a homecoming, and an awakening. Like drifting for the first time again, they had a new level of access to each other.

 

At first, the kiss was pure wonder, sweetness and purity. Then Clint slanted his mouth against Phil’s and explored, teased with his tongue before nipping gently at Phil’s lips. Coulson matched him, let him in and closed the distance between their bodies, clutching Clint’s arm as he pulled them together.

 

Clint pulled back for a moment. “You can’t be real, Phil. You just can’t. It’s not possible.”

 

Laughing, Phil replied, “Take me to the shower and find out for yourself.”

  
_fin_.


End file.
